


keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you

by winonadanger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, Implied Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, uh this is probably not the fic you think it's going to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winonadanger/pseuds/winonadanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(alternatively titled, "Oh no, that <i>is</i> hot," Enjolras whispered in egalitarian horror.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: breathplay/choking, brief suicidal ideation, and... murder fantasies? i don't know how to word that one sorry
> 
> (and yes, the title is fall out boy lyrics, because i never really stopped being fifteen)

It is not so much the remark itself that finally gets to him. A headache has planted itself firmly in the space behind his eyes, he has hardly slept in six days and is running largely on fervor alone, someone previously an ally has found their republican streak weaker than thought-- and now Grantaire has chosen _this_  meeting to stay after and further antagonize him. Enjolras had sent Combeferre and Courfeyrac away, both quietly concerned, saying he desired some time alone to gather his papers and thoughts; he is unsure if Grantaire had overheard that conversation, but in his present mood he is more than willing to assume malice and intention.

This assumption is not exactly dispelled when Grantaire speaks, after what feels like an eternity of him waiting and drinking and staring while Enjolras pointedly ignores his presence. "Do you understand by now that this is all in vain, or will that wait until your death?"

So it is to be that conversation then, one they have had countless times, and which grew tedious almost immediately. Normally Enjolras manages to remain collected (though not usually calm) as they each rehash their arguments, redraw their lines in the sand. But this is something he has neither the time nor the inclination to deal with tonight, and he finds himself standing, jaw set and anger in his eyes, in front of Grantaire where he half-leans half-sits on the edge of a table. Enjolras is a force to be reckoned with and though Grantaire is larger and likely stronger even when drunk, he shrinks back unconsciously.

"Close in proximity, but no closer to answering me. What a novelty." Grantaire adds after a few moments of Enjolras silently fuming, but he looks more than slightly pleased that he has drawn Enjolras' full attention. _This_ is not a novelty.

"Must you really continue to come to these meetings and harass us, harass _me_ ; do you really have nothing better to do with your time? I doubt that you have, though-- what besides this do you even do to while away the time between your blackouts?" Enjolras finally says, the tension coiled up in him like a wound spring evident even in his voice.

Grantaire winces slightly, but with some resignation; the accusation is fair enough, he knows. He has thought along these same lines himself, and it is a train of thought that more often than not ends with an urge to throw himself into the Seine; and though he has so far thwarted this urge he wonders if there will be a time he will not.

"And what do _you_ do to _while away_  the time between your daydreams of schoolboy revolution?"

It is hardly the worst thing he has said to Enjolras, not by far, but it infuriates him nonetheless. Even so, he is more than a little shocked when he realizes he has slammed Grantaire back onto the table behind him with a grip on his throat.

The startled gasp is not even remotely unexpected, though the bitten-off moan _is_  something of a surprise. Grantaire very quickly averts his gaze from Enjolras, suddenly very interested on a trodden-on pamphlet under a neighboring table instead.

Enjolras knows that any intimidation he may cause comes largely from intensity and rhetoric and conviction, much more than from anything physical. But his confusion is followed by curiosity, and he relaxes his grip but does not remove his hand.

He presses down on Grantaire's throat.

Were there any lingering doubts as to the nature of Grantaire's reactions, the upward jerk of his hips is more than adequate to dispel them.

Enjolras would be lying if he were to try to argue that the idea of control over another's life placed so literally in his hand has not affected him. This discovery concerns him, but his concern does very little to quell the thrill coiling along his spine.

Grantaire is watching Enjolras again, his look a combination of confusion and poorly concealed want. For a long moment the only sound is his own breathing, fast and harsh.

Enjolras' expression is unreadable. He does not break eye contact as he slowly tightens his fingers, _very_ slowly, like he is proving a point. Grantaire makes a small, desperate noise and exhales a quiet and shaky " _christ_ ". Beneath his fingertips, Enjolras can feel Grantaire's pulse jumping erratically, feel his throat working as he swallows and gulps for air, feel the minute shifts as he tries to press his neck up harder against Enjolras' hand; another spark jolts through him and Enjolras feels his own breathing go slightly shallower.

One side of his mouth quirks up in a crueler approximation of a smile and he digs fingernails into skin and he hopes he will have left bruises, scratches, damage. A small, dark part of Enjolras wants him to die. Another part reminds him that he should not want this. Grantaire gasps like a man saved from drowning, whispers "please," presses his hips up again.

"Please what?" The half-smile is gone again and his tone is innocent and he seems even crueller for it.

Grantaire groans as loudly as he can manage, tries to push his hips up further. " _Please_ " he emphasizes, and he shifts restlessly. Enjolras only stares at him with mock confusion and flexes his fingers slightly. Grantaire gives a shaky exhale and falls back flat against the table again. His eyes fall shut for a moment before he, quietly and in a voice tinged with want, says "touch me please-- sorry-- _christ_ i  _please_ just _fuck_ just tou--"

Enjolras cuts him off with an exaggerated revelatory "oh" and presses his free hand where Grantaire is straining against his trousers, digs his fingers in. Grantaire cries out and rocks his hips up fast and desperate.

Enjolras lets him rut against his hand, intermittently changing the pressure both there and on his neck, until Graintaire's breath becomes dangerously labored. Enjolras wants to tighten the grip on Grantaire's neck even more, wants to watch the last breath leave his lips; and he wonders if Grantaire would let him, thinks he probably would. The train of thought terrifies him, but he still has to bite the inside his lip until it bleeds to keep a groan from escaping.

Enjolras releases Grantaire's neck all at once; Grantaire breathes in like he has just been resurrected and his hips lose any semblance of rhythm. Enjolras rakes his nails hard down the side of his neck, hard enough that two of the bright red lines start bleeding, and it is this that finishes Grantaire; he cries out and slumps back, breath coming in heavy pants.

Enjolras wipes his hand on Grantaire’s shirt and pulls it away with a grimace. He is about to return to his interrupted work but Grantaire all but throws himself off the table and scrambles to kneel at Enjolras' feet.

"May I?" His fingers hover over the flap of Enjolras' trousers but his voice is small and quiet, as if his earlier display had left him embarrassed (that same cruel part of Enjolras marvels at this-- was Grantaire not aware that he could only move higher in Enjolras' esteem, that after all this time Enjolras could not fathom a further depth to which that standing could sink?; another part protests this condemnation, but it is admittedly quieter than it might usually be).

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, then pauses and considers the question seriously. He thinks of his headache and his exhaustion and his spring-tight tension. He thinks of mocking tones and loud interjections and repeated disappointment. Finally, Enjolras answers with, "Do what you will; it does not matter to me." His voice is neutral to the point of disinterest but he leans against the table behind him. Grantaire thinks this answer might have been worse than a no; Enjolras knows it is. Grantaire's hands are shaking slightly as he fumbles his way through the buttons and tugs the fabric down.

Enjolras is almost fully hard already; Grantaire nearly offers comment on this, but (for once) thinks better of it. He wastes no time and quickly takes him down all the way; Enjolras inhales sharply and threads his fingers in Grantaire's hair, rocks his hips forward. Grantaire hums, hollows his cheeks, presses with his tongue just so, and Enjolras' grip in his hair tightens, and his hips rock with a little more urgency. Enjolras is nearly _silent_ , which irks Grantaire more than he would prefer to say; after an (unfortunate)(blessed) incident where he was rudely awakened after blacking out in some nook of the back room of the café, he knows Enjolras is not usually so, instead instructing and praising and begging until the point of incoherence, leader even then. He is still uncertain whether he regrets knowing this or not.

Enjolras at least has the courtesy to cut himself off when he groans out "Co--" and instead let out a shaky exhale. It is more out of habit than malice, this time; even today he does not feel like being quite that cruel. It still stings of course, though it is admittedly not too much of a surprise. Grantaire curls his tongue and sucks hard and digs his nails into Enjolras' hips, for once eager (and able) to prove himself. He relishes the gasp and the pain of his hair being pulled, the jerk of hips and the press at the back of his throat.

Enjolras fucks his mouth in earnest after that, starts in on strings of curses and blasphemies in French and Occitan and _oh_ s and _ah_ s, his grip on Grantaire's hair white-knuckle tight and his hips snapping forward. Grantaire lets him, is more than happy to, would let him do much more. He pretends that any of this, all of this, is not far, far more than he deserves.

Not much later, Enjolras is all but shouting and his thrusts turn erratic and desperate, and when he comes it is with a cry and a harshly exhaled " _fuck_ ". He grips the table tightly and slumps back against it, pulls his body in on itself. He lets his head hang down as he catches his breath, and Grantaire tries not to stare, for the most part succeeds. The lines of Enjolras’ hair disrupt the lines of his soft features, and they shift slightly with every breath he pulls in; Grantaire knows he would never be able to capture it, never be able to show the way even the dim lighting of the Musain makes him look radiant, never be able to mix the right shade for the fading flush gracing Enjolras' cheekbones or for the bright blue of his eyes, never be able to-- he cannot capture any of it, knows he never will, and in this moment he truly believes himself a failure of an artist. His memory still has attention for details he will never properly commit to canvas, and he is grateful for that: he doubts he will again see Enjolras disheveled in _quite_ this way, and especially not from an angle like this one. Enjolras then runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair and regains composure, redoes the buttons of his trousers, walks back to the table where he had been working earlier in the night. The only real visual difference is that the set of his shoulders has relaxed and his forehead is now smoothed of tension; in all other ways it is as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

After a while that passes far too quickly from Grantaire's perspective, Enjolras looks up from his work and asks carefully, dismissively, with what sounds like genuine curiosity, "Is there a reason you're still here, Grantaire?" He almost looks more beautiful like this, when he looks like he is carved from ice instead of marble.

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak but (again) thinks better of it. He turns to leave and wonders if he had really been surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks are owed to tumblr users sunshineprouvaire & montreuil-sur-mer, who are wonderful and looked this over for me and, most impressive of all, put up with me complaining about writing it.


End file.
